


(Under the) Mistletoe

by Arej



Series: Inked Confessions [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Established Relationship, Kisses, M/M, Other, Tattooed!Crowley, and crowley is very touch starved, aziraphale is very tactile, but nothing explicit, rated for some suggestive implications, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout, which is a match made right here between heaven and hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 1 of the advent calendar of prompts.Aziraphale likes to sit, and study, and hear the stories behind each of Crowley's tattoos. Even it turns out he already knows them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Inked Confessions [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1499450
Comments: 19
Kudos: 288





	(Under the) Mistletoe

Not for the first time, Crowley wonders whether he might have been better off when Aziraphale didn’t know about his tattoos.

It’s not a serious contemplation, if he’s honest with himself - that night, the wine-soaked recklessness and brazen courage, is counted among the best things that’s ever happened to him. It means he can have this: a cozy night in, after dinner and a fair number of drinks. It’s rather similar to the beginning of that first night, the life-changing one; he’s sprawled across the sofa in the bookshop’s back room, a blazing fire in the hearth. Lucky thing, that, as it’s providing enough warmth to keep the chill off his exposed skin. There’s rather more of it than there would have been before that night, before the reveal, the confession; he’s down to just his trousers, left arm flung across his eyes so he doesn’t have to look.

Aziraphale is doing plenty of looking for the both of them, really.

The angel’s desire to look is what has led them here; he’d been rubbing his fingers over the scales inked at the edge of Crowley’s collar, seemingly absentmindedly, for the first half of the evening - the first bottle of wine and into the second, driving the demon slowly mad with the rhythmic motion of his fingertips. Crowley had fought so hard not to move, despite the way the angel’s fingertips seemed to coil something desperate around his spine, something trembling and needful, until the pressure was too much to bear and he broke under the onslaught, shivering.

Aziraphale had pulled away then, and Crowley had allowed himself a moment of disappointment - careful, as ever, to keep it off his face, lest the angel catch on to how pathetic he truly was, how needy - but before he could fire off a witty comment, the angel had plucked at his shirt and asked, “May I?” To which Crowley, ever a sucker for those big blue eyes and already half out of his mind from constant touch, had replied “Of course,” without pause to consider what, exactly, his angel was asking _for_.

And now here they are, Crowley half-naked and spread across the sofa, exactly how Aziraphale had arranged him, while the angel kneels on the floor beside him. _Looking._

It’s - it’s flattering, really. Aziraphale has been enraptured with Crowley’s ink since that first night. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off it, or his hands; Crowley is back to being careful to keep everything hidden while they’re out, now, after one too many dinners at the Ritz where Aziraphale nearly discorporated him by spending the entire meal with one hand on Crowley’s arm. The feel of the angel’s soft fingertips tracing gently over the leaves peeking out from under his jacket sleeve, settling on the delicate skin of the inside of his wrist, _stroking_ there, had set Crowley’s decorative heart to beating at twice the ideal speed.

The third time he’d failed to bite back a whimper, the tattoos went invisible. He might have caved to Aziraphale’s pout if the angel hadn’t also been smirking; instead, they stay hidden in public, with the tacit agreement that no such thing occurs inside the bookshop. It’s a compromise to preserve the last shreds of Crowley’s dignity - of course Aziraphale, bastard that he is, still keeps his hand on Crowley’s wrist at dinner, although thankfully he keeps the stroking to a minimum.

But when they’re alone…

Crowley bites the inside of his cheek to keep from jumping, or whimpering, or worse, when Aziraphale’s fingers land just above his hipbone. The general scrutiny is over, now, and the angel has settled on which of Crowley’s tattoos he wants to study in detail tonight. Crowley knows the map of his own skin as well as he knows Aziraphale’s face; it’s the mistletoe he’s focused on. It’s fitting, given the season.

Aziraphale’s fingers twitch on the tattoo, and Crowley bites down so hard there’s blood in his mouth.

Of _course_ it’s the mistletoe.

“I remember,” Aziraphale begins, as he always does, fingers tracing the outline of the tattoo. “I remember how pleased you were, that something so poisonous was being willingly brought into so many homes. And of course there's all the accidents that followed.”

Crowley swallows past the blood, nearly chokes on it as Aziraphale’s fingers skim the bottom edge. “Got - got a commendation, for that,” he manages, and if his voice is breathy, well, he doesn’t have to see the smug smirk on his angel’s face.

He can _hear_ it, though. “Oh, is that the story behind this one?”

Damn him - bless him - whatever. Fuck. Crowley promised, swore when this started, that he’d be honest. Not that he’d ever outright lied to Aziraphale before - hedged the truth a bit, sure, but never lied. Aziraphale knows that. Aziraphale also knows that these tattoos all have stories behind them, stories important enough for Crowley to want a permanent reminder, and that most1 of those stories have something to do with _him_.

Crowley is tempted, sorely tempted, to lie.

“No,” he admits, pressing his elbow harder against his face. Maybe the angel will drop it.

There’s silence for a bit, broken only by the crackle of logs in the grate and the barely perceptible rasp of skin on skin as Aziraphale traces the leaves and berries of the mistletoe bundle. It’s a touch more stylized than most of his other pieces, a little less photorealistic, a little more idealized. More perfect.

They’ve talked enough about his other pieces, on other nights like this one, and doubtless Aziraphale has done his research. Crowley knows the difference won’t escape his angel’s notice.

Yeah, he’s not going to drop it.

“I never knew you were such a fan of mistletoe, my dear.”

“’M not,” Crowley chokes out.

“No? Well then.” Aziraphale’s thumb is tracking tiny circles around each individual berry, working his way through the clusters. Crowley’s toes curl in an effort to keep the rest of him still and tension-free. “They must have been present during something very meaningful, to earn a place on your skin.”

Aziraphale has left the question open on purpose; he can give a noncommittal answer if he wants. But there’s a tightness in his chest, an aching, and he’s carried this secret so long…

Aziraphale covers the mistletoe bundle with his palm, warm and soft on Crowley’s skin, then curls his fingers inward as if to grasp the plant. His nails drag along sensitive skin, and Crowley just barely fights off a shudder.

“Germany,” he bites out, and is rewarded with a gentle flexing of those fingers, so that Aziraphale’s blunt nails drag across his skin again, and drag the rest of the words from his throat. “December, seventeen ninety - _ah_ \- ninety-seven.”

He peeks, then, because he can’t _not_ ; Aziraphale’s hand has gone still, and when he looks, there’s a soft smile stretching across his angel’s face. Aziraphale catches him looking and his smile goes impossibly softer. “Rastatt.”

“I didn’t expect to see you there,” Crowley admits. His voice comes out with a softness to rival the angel’s smile. “You were sourcing books for the shop.”

“There was a merchant with a beautifully preserved copy of the Wicked Bible,” Aziraphale agrees. “I didn’t expect to see you, either.”

Crowley shrugs, left arm draped across his brow now instead of his eyes. “Work. Hell wanted me to cause some trouble at the Congress.”

“But you didn’t.”

He considers pointing out that the Congress _did_ fail, and he’d taken credit for it, but that’s not the point. The angel is right; he’d gotten distracted immediately upon arriving in town, too intent on catching up with Aziraphale to bother with the temptation.

They’d spent a week eating spaetzle at every place either of them noticed, and the evenings drinking half the town dry. After Aziraphale had secured his misprint Bible, Crowley had followed him back to London.

Had followed him _home_. He’d gotten a place of his own right after, settled in near his angel. Settled down.

“No, I didn’t,” he agrees.

Aziraphale is still smiling at him, the soft curve of his lips making Crowley’s heart somersault in his chest. He lifts his right hand from where the angel had placed it for perusal on the sofa, smooths trembling fingers over a smiling cheek, traces the plush curve of Aziraphale’s bottom lip with his thumb.

“You kissed me,” he breathes. Best to tell the truth now, let the secret out. “The third night in Rastatt. It was nearly Christmas, there was mistletoe everywhere, and you were - you were absolutely sloshed, angel, and I was presenting female at the time -”

“- and Frau Stahl had hung a bunch in the doorway of the boarding house,” Aziraphale interrupts. “We’d been pretending you were my wife, for propriety’s sake, and when we came in that night she insisted -”

“I thought you were too drunk to remember.” The tightness, which he refuses to acknowledge as fear, is loosening in his chest. “I thought -”

“Oh, my dearest. My darling.” Aziraphale turns his face into Crowley’s palm, presses a kiss there, closes his eyes. He speaks the next words in a quiet murmur. “It was safer, that way.”

They’ve talked a little about the fears that held Aziraphale back, the way terror - not for himself, but for Crowley, always for Crowley - had thrummed constantly under his skin. He’s miserable about it now, apologetic whenever it comes up; Crowley can’t bear the thought of Aziraphale agonizing over this. Not now. Not ever, really, but especially not now, not when the past is so far behind them and he can finally _do_ something about it.

The warmth in his chest is like molten gold. He tilts Aziraphale’s face back until damp blue eyes meet his own, traces his thumb once again over those divine lips. “Knowing you remember makes me feel less guilty.”

The admission does what it was intended to do; the edge of Aziraphale’s mouth quirks up in a smile. “I thought you never felt guilty about anything, my dear? Isn’t that - how did you put it - one of the perks of being a demon?”

Crowley fights his own smile. “Vaguely guilty,” he amends, and is rewarded with a laugh.

“And what would you have to feel vaguely guilty about, anyway? I started it - well, at Frau Stahl’s insistence, I’ll admit, but it’s not as if I couldn’t have refused her. I really did want to. And it was a rather lovely kiss, if I may say so.”

Crowley hums in agreement. It _had_ been lovely - had filled him with warmth right down to his bones, a warmth he carried all the way back to London, into the new century. Compared to the warmth he feels now, it was nothing, but back then - oh, then…

His thumb traces a slow path across the angel’s plush lower lip.

“Starred in a lot of dreams, that kiss.” _And fantasies,_ Crowley doesn’t admit, but the tilt of Aziraphale’s lips and the spark in his eye suggest he hears the unspoken confession anyway. “Thought about it every Christmas, every time I passed some shop all done up with mistletoe. Still do.”

“All these years?”

The weight of Aziraphale’s gaze is palpable. There’s no need to pretend here, not anymore - no more secrets. No shame. Still, there’s a blush high on his cheeks when Crowley admits, “Every last one.”

It’s worth it, for the smile he gets in response. 

“Mistletoe _is_ for kisses,” Aziraphale allows. His thumb sweeps idly over the inked facsimile, and this time Crowley doesn’t fight the shiver. The spark in his angel’s eye catches to a smolder. “And for kissing.”

He moves slowly, deliberately; keeps his eyes on Crowley’s as he lowers his head to press a chaste kiss just there, to the center of the tattoo. Crowley’s breath hitches.

“Angel -”

 _I started this,_ Crowley thinks. He had. He’d taken the energy in this direction intentionally, steering them around a round of unnecessary apologies to spare himself, and Aziraphale, the heartache, but he always forgets how readily the angel follows. How easy it is to spark this flame. Aziraphale is insatiable, and Crowley absolutely helpless in the face of all that desire, all that _want_ , directed at him. 

It thrills him and surprises him in equal measure.

“This isn’t quite right,” Aziraphale murmurs, mouth still pressed to the tattoo. His eyes are a hot, piercing blue that Crowley couldn’t escape, even if he wanted to.

“O - Oh?”

“Kisses -” his lips are dragging across Crowley’s skin now, whisper-soft, and he has to curl his toes tight to keep from squirming “- are supposed to be _under_ the mistletoe, aren’t they?”

There’s nothing but fizzing static in Crowley’s skull as Aziraphale shifts lower, sets his mouth to the delicate skin just inside Crowley’s jutting hipbone, right at the leading edge of his trousers. Static, and one last fleeting thought:

He’s _definitely_ better off now that Aziraphale knows about the tattoos.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 All. _All_ of the stories, _all_ of the tattoos - except the snake scales, admittedly - have to do with Aziraphale. He just…doesn’t know that, not for certain. Not yet. ^


End file.
